


you are (a call to motion)

by liquidsky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam Winchester, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 01:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: Sam's out of his mind, sort of.





	you are (a call to motion)

All's fine and well—Sam is not looking, sitting with his legs crossed and knees sort of aching, his hand around a mug of too-bitter coffee. He's not looking, except for how he kind of is. 

Next to Dean on the table, with his head tipped sideways in an awkward maneuver not to breathe directly into Dean's mouth as both of them attempt to peer down at the same four-fucking-centuries-old book of lore on _sirens_, of all things, Cas is biting his lips, and Sam is lying to himself and asserting that he is not watching the little dents left on Cas' mouth. He's failing, mostly, _has_ been failing for the better part of the last three days, which Cas spent reacclimating himself to his newly restored grace, and Sam spent reacclimating himself to its weird, everpresent magnetic pull. It's ridiculous, and he knows it, he is (or _should_ be) way past the point of allowing himself objects of worship, least of all _Cas_, whose acquired human ticks cling to him even now that he's no longer human at all. In all honesty, Sam's not entirely sure, nor has he ever been, that the aforementioned magnetic pull isn't just _Cas_. Not his grace, but something else, like the notched-up intensity of his gaze and his offbeat sense of humor. There's too much about him that Sam knows edges beyond whatever he deems godly—Cas is many things, a number of them far from holy, and Sam could not say when that became part of the problem. 

Cas glances up at him, which means Sam immediately looks down at his coffee, ignoring Cas' frown and busying his free hand by tapping a funky little rhythm on his own thigh. 

"Yeah," Dean's voice slices through the not-quite-silence, the loud scrape of his chair against the floor echoing around the room as he struggles up from his seat and stretches. "I'm calling it a day." 

Cas stares up at Dean, saying "We haven't reached the middle yet," and Sam knows what's coming next, not only because it's obvious – the universe must find it fucking hilarious, too, so he sighs, pushing up from his chair just as Dean decides to live up to his shitty expectations.

"Sam'll help." 

Great. "Will you?" Cas asks him, sounding just apologetic enough that Sam forces himself to smile, brushing his hair away from his face before plopping down on the chair Dean was sat on until a few seconds ago. 

"Sure, Cas." 

He nods once, and Dean does, too, clapping his hands and not even saying goodnight before he turns around and fucks off to his bedroom. Sam glances at Cas through the corner of his eye, which he, of course, notices, offering Sam a thoughtful look. 

"Sam," Cas starts, pausing for a second before continuing , "have I done something to upset you?" 

Sam blinks at him. He's not nearly as easy to upset as Dean is, and then there's also how he's spent all twenty-nine of his years as the ruling champion in the International Fuck-Ups contest, so none of Cas' missteps over the time he's been with them have really aggravated him that much. He's not angry with Cas, not upset or sad or anything other than apparently losing his shit over every aspect of him, as well as over how he did _not_ see it coming at all. It happened in the blink of eye, less like falling asleep and more like slipping on wet tiles and braining yourself on the edge of a sink. Cas had been eating a peach, hours before he got his grace back, all ravenous and earnest, and the juice had dripped past his lips, sticky over his chin.

Sam's brain had more or less short-circuited at that. 

Now, weirdly high-strung and all over the place, he looks back at Cas with his stomach clenching around nothing and the heat of a blush rising on his cheeks. Goddammit. 

"No, Cas," he tells him, scrubbing a pathetic hand down his face, "I've just been–I don't know." 

Cas cocks his head, skeptical, and Sam fidgets with the sleeve of his flannel for long enough that Cas puts a hand overtop of his. Sam's not proud to admit that he jumps, but it's sort of what happens. 

"Sam–"

"Shit, listen,"

"What–"

He gets up, the screech of his chair even louder than Dean's was, and Cas follows him up, moving to the side then back into Sam's space. He takes hold of his jaw, twisting Sam's head to the side. 

"I haven't hit my head, Cas." 

"Brain injuries are known to cause strange behavior, Sam. The last hunt–"

"–was over a week ago, I'm _fine_. I'm just," _horny,_ he doesn't say, "feeling kind of under the weather, I guess." 

Cas hums, still inquiring, so Sam exhales loudly and tries to step away from him, though all it does is press him closer to the edge of the table. Caught between a rock and hard place, except the proverbial rock is pretty much made of wood, and he _has_ to stop thinking about hard places before he bursts into flames. 

Sam feels more like a victorian maiden than he's ever felt in his whole life when Cas presses his fingers more firmly over his cheek. It's a nightmare—he's way too old to be getting the _vapors_, for fuck's sake. 

"A little space, Cas."

Cas says "Sorry," in a careful voice, but he barely moves a muscle, so Sam's forced to push forward to try and get around him. 

"Jesus," Sam mutters, when Cas doesn't let him. "Seriously, dude?" 

Squinting, Cas lets of Sam's face to poke around his neck. 

Sam bats his hand away, "Cas."

"I can heal you from your cold."

"Yeah, uh, that's not–"

Cas' fingers fly up to pause over Sam's forehead, his eyes flashing white-hot, and the healing thing would be a nice gesture if Sam actually had anything that needed patching up. As it is, he's still just–hard up, embarrassingly warm, really fucking wishing Cas would take a step or two back. 

"You're still warm," Cas points out, to which Sam responds with about the most embarrassing sound he's ever uttered in his life. "Is that normal?"

"It's fine, Cas, thank you."

"It doesn't seem fine." 

Sam says "I'll deal," and starts shuffling slightly to the side, hoping that means he's closer to escaping Cas' otherworldly scrutiny, but Cas mirrors his movements. 

"I can help."

"Yeah, _that?_" Sam sighs, "Not a good idea." 

Cas makes another one of his noises, all curious, super annoying, and it's stupid, the back and forth between Sam's constant denials and Cas' unrelenting questioning, so Sam gives it up and lunges into Cas in a sharp stream of movement that Cas doesn't seem all that startled by. Their lips touch, a dry brushing of skin which turns slick when Sam runs his tongue over Cas' bottom lip, then in, the pace odd and mismatched until Cas turns his head just so and they find their footing. In his most plaintive of fantasies, Sam expected lightning, the smashing of glass, any evidence pointing to Cas' heavenly nature. Instead, what he gets are Cas' hands clutching the back of his arms, slithering up to Sam's shoulders, his mouth hungry as he stands almost on his tiptoes. Sam leans down and into him, bites his lip, dodges a kiss so he can drag his teeth down Cas' jaw and receive a hushed groan in response. 

Warm all over, Sam's knees melt from under him right as Cas ducks his head to latch his lips to Sam's throat, a gentle bite that he soothes with a wet swipe of his tongue. One second, Sam's breathing "Bedroom," into Cas' hair. In the next, they're there, tripping over the bed and going sprawling across the mattress, pressed together in all the important places and then some. Sam yelps, sort of, and Cas shushes him, palm accidentally too firm over Sam's mouth. It's almost embarrassing, his obvious shudder, but Sam figures he's done _way more embarrassing_ stuff than being just a bit overeager. Or a lot—whatever, Cas has seen his _soul_, they're past the point of self-consciousness, and there are worse things than some too-heavy breathing and arching of backs. Sam pants, hot and humid, and Cas' palm descends to cradle his chin. He presses one close-mouthed kiss to Sam's lips before he's pulling away to kneel half on top of him and get rid of his own clothing, which Sam's gotta admit is sort of impressive. He didn't _exactly_ expect that Cas would tread as seamlessly up this specific shore of experience, but watching Cas – _naked_, with his surprisingly thick arms and soft curve of a stomach – makes Sam twitch and grunt and have to close his eyes. He does, and Cas' fingers flutter over his eyelids for barely the length of a breath before he's shoving his hands under Sam's shirt and trying to push them up his torso. 

Sam helps, struggling up and pulling his own shirt off before undoing the button of his pants and pushing them down his legs. All the while, Cas watches, unnervingly focused, but Sam doesn't cross his arms over his chest; he gazes back at Cas, a bright pulse of pride traipsing up his veins when Cas' lips twitch and he drags his hands down Sam's body in an openly reverent manner. Sam's breath hitches, a loud stutter that Cas swallows. It's nothing like he thought it would be, and all the better for it. 

Cas' fingers are surprisingly deft curling around his dick, and Sam bucks again, hips straining up, so Cas picks up the pace without a second glance – he knows Cas picks up on stray thoughts easily enough, something about the precise definition of a prayer getting lost in translation when Sam's mind loops around his name, a high, ear-splitting repetition of sounds that all somehow add up to the particular way Cas leans down and closes his lips over the head of Sam's dick. If there's nothing necessarily otherworldly about Cas himself, Sam'll still be hard-pressed to agree on the lack of a divine quality to the press of Cas' tongue on the length of him, heated and impossible not to gasp over, too much and not enough at once. Sam's hips twitch upward again, and Cas pulls away, licking his lips and cocking his head with a curious look to his eyes. 

"Sam," he starts, caution thrown to the wind, running his palms down the splay of Sam's thighs, the smooth skin of his hands tickling the sparse hairs there. "Do you think–"

Impatience is not something Sam's ever been particularly cursed with, but he finds that he doesn't have it in him to wait for the exact phrasing Cas must be trying to work around. He sighs, "You should fuck me," and Cas blinks at him for a second before smiling, leaning down to lick into Sam's mouth then pulling away again to look around the room with an expectant kind of interest. 

Sam twists however he can, grabbing a bottle of lube from his bedside table and squinting to check the expiration date – God (or maybe not _God_, he cringes, _whoever_) knows its contents haven't seen the light of day in ages. Cas doesn't seem to notice it, and if he does, he doesn't seem to care, flipping the bottle open and squirting a seriously excessive amount over his entire hand. 

Sam stares at him, only relaxing when Cas wipes it on the comforter and tries again, coating a promising selection of fingers this time. 

"Got me scared there for a second," Sam tries to joke. 

Cas offers him a confused frown, and Sam's _really_ not about to talk fisting here, so opts out of speaking and pulls Cas closer by the wrist instead, trying to spread his legs wider. The first insistent press of Cas' fingers is a novelty Sam desperately wishes he could get used to—both intimate and slightly bewildering, heightened when Cas pushes in, two fingers at once, and Sam's mind goes haywire again, all over the place, something golden-hot burning both in his gut and behind his eyelids when he throws his head back and chokes around a particularly loud inhale. 

Cas touches him, confident strokes that Sam pants and grunts to, his body twitching in and out of Cas' space as though it has a mind of its own. He's not _angelic_ about it, the rhythm he plays Sam to distinctly vicious, going too harsh at times, alternating between sweet and stern with no real pattern. Sam's out of his mind with it, only peripherally aware of how he should be _quiet_, except his voice, much like the rest of him, seems to be done abiding by any rules. Cas pulls out of him right as Sam starts shaking, so hot he more or less feels as though he's half on his way to full-blown incineration, and Sam is left to blink owlishly at the ceiling and try to catch his bearings. 

Time grinds to a comfortable halt, Cas watching Sam watch him, all bright-eyed, a twitch to his lips as he smears lube-covered fingerprints over Sam's hip. Sam squirms, about to say something, but Cas covers Sam's mouth with his and pushes in with no warning except the warmth of his thighs on the back of Sam's. 

Sam's mind has never been one for stopping, not really, but it does pause then–every thought in his head dissolves like smoke in the air, and all he feels is Cas, in, in, _in,_ all of him unholy but glorious nonetheless, sinking into Sam with wide eyes and heaving gasps that Sam chases hungrily, his hands palming Cas' back, nails digging into skin. 

It goes on like this, like riding the brunt of a storm with his back arched and Cas' hands everywhere at once, at a pace so unforgiving Sam feels glued together, a thing of ocean and sand of which the edges are carved into something else by the second. It goes on – not life-changing, exactly, but full of small revisions, about him, about Cas, about this place that the three of them share. Sam groans into Cas' open mouth, and he breathes it in, too, the storm inside him slowing into a calming ripple that, against all good sense, is far more devastating. 

He clings to Cas as he comes, eyes widening when Cas follows right behind, slicking up his insides and staggering to a stop, the weight of him falling over Sam. His lips brush the side of Sam's face, and Sam taps him on the back with a grin, "Well." 

Cas lifts his head to give Sam a look that he's not sure how to interpret, except Cas shuffles around to plop down on the bed, their elbows and shoulders brushing together. He glances sideways at Sam again, says "I told you I could help." 

Sam snorts, covering his face with an arm, "Thanks, Cas."

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, so, the last time i wrote _supernatural_ fanfiction was _ten years ago_ when, at the tender age of thirteen, i decided it'd be wise for me to write a real mary sue self-insert type of thing featuring an original female character (me) and sam. which, like, fine. is he still the love of my life? sure! but we've moved on to better lands over the course of these ten years, so we ended up here instead.
> 
> the title is obviously from a hozier song because anything that's both horny and lowkey religious has to circle back to him eventually.


End file.
